


it talks in tongues and quiet sighs

by argentconflagration



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Emotional Sex, Hair Braiding, Moving In Together, Other, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), i apologize to anyone who doesn't like hair cause this fic is mostly tender caressing of hair, so soft it hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:39:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23510959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argentconflagration/pseuds/argentconflagration
Summary: Crowley's going to burst. He's going to discorporate on the spot, right here. He closes his eyes and sighs in contentment and assent, and Aziraphale kisses him. It's not deep, but it goes on and on -- Crowley could stay like this forever, and he'd like to believe Aziraphale feels the same. One of Aziraphale's hands is in Crowley's shirt, making tiny grasping motions that Crowley isn't sure Aziraphale is even aware of. But finally Aziraphale pulls back and rests his forehead on Crowley's. He stares into his eyes for a long moment, and takes a long breath in and out. Then he stands up, straightening his waistcoat. "Thank you for that," he says quietly, cheeks pink and gaze still lingering on Crowley's eyes.Aziraphale and Crowley settle in together, softly and slowly. There's kisses and hair braiding and whispered words of affirmation. It's soft, y'all.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 187
Collections: Happy Birthday moveslikebucky!





	it talks in tongues and quiet sighs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MovesLikeBucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/gifts).



The apocalypse has only been cancelled for nineteen days when Aziraphale says, completely out of the blue, "I think I'd like to travel a bit."

_He wants to get away from you,_ says a small, biting thing inside Crowley, but he ignores it with practised ease, and responds with a blank, "Oh. Alright then."

But something of it must show on his face, because Aziraphale looks at him with concern. "It's not ... it's not that I'm not enjoying --" and he makes a gesture that could be indicating the wine glasses on the coffee table in front of them, but isn't -- "this. Us." His fingers rub worriedly at the knee of his trousers. "I just need some time to ... figure myself out, I suppose."

And Crowley won't pretend to himself that he's not churning with anxiety, worrying that all the time he's been spending with Aziraphale lately has been overstepping, that this is the beginning of the end, that this is what it sounds like right before Aziraphale tells him he doesn't want Crowley in his life anymore.

But he can pretend to Aziraphale.

"'Course, angel. It's been a rough decade, you deserve a break, do whatever you need to." Aziraphale's face floods with relief, and Crowley can never help but be pleased at that.

* * *

Crowley does miss Aziraphale, obviously. They'd been seeing each other nearly other day, and he had very much been hoping for that to continue, but a few weeks is hardly the longest they've been apart, and Crowley genuinely isn't worried about finding ways to pass that amount of time. The worry is worse. He has a hard time shouting down the voice in him that keeps asking, _What if he never comes back?_ But Aziraphale had said he was coming back, that he'd be back in London in two weeks, so Crowley chooses to believe him. He has to, if _their own side_ is going to mean anything. That's what they are now. People who trust each other.

Aziraphale comes back, of course. A day early, in fact. He telephones Crowley to ask if he'd like to meet for dinner, and he has a quiet glow about him when Crowley comes back to the bookshop, lighting up like the sight of Crowley like is the greatest joy he's ever known. They have a pleasant enough meal together, and Crowley listens with mostly only short phrases of acknowledgement as Aziraphale describes the goings-on of every continent of the world. The change comes when they get up to leave, and Aziraphale asks, with a confusing mix of shyness and eagerness, if Crowley would like to come back to the bookshop with him.

Crowley blinks in confusion. Of course he would, and he says as much. It's not even a question, much less the fraught topic Aziraphale seems to be seeing it as. That sharp twist of worry that he'd managed to suppress rises up in his chest again, and he tries his best to squelch it. But maybe this is what it looks like when the other shoe is about to drop ...

Then he forgets all about his internal dialogue, because Aziraphale is taking his hand, and he doesn't let go as they walk the short distance back to the bookshop. Crowley doesn't stare at their joined hands the entire way, or at least he doesn't think he does, but he's quiet. His brain needs a few minutes to process this development. Maybe a few years.

Aziraphale lets go of his hand when they step over the threshold, to fuss at getting them wine. Crowley's known him long enough to be able to tell that he's calming himself with the ritual of it, putting off whatever fraught conversation is on the tip of his tongue. Crowley isn't going to say anything -- sure, hereditary-enemies-who-are-something-close-to-friends don't usually hold hands to walk through the streets of Soho, but he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. There's only a moment of awkward quiet, though, before Aziraphale interrupts his thoughts again.

"Crowley," he starts, and then takes a fortifying sip of wine before speaking again, "I really do like you. Quite a lot, really, and I've been thinking, well, we're free now, aren't we? To ... to make the most of that, so to speak."

Crowley stares, because that sure does sound like _I want a relationship with you_ wrapped in several layers of indirectness, but he can't exactly say that. All that comes out of his mouth is, "Make the most of it?"

"Well I just think -- if I'm not mistaken." Aziraphale twists his signet ring back and forth on his little finger. "I think that we've both, for a very long time, wanted more from our, ah, from our friendship, than we could really ... than was safe, before now, and I think that it would be nice to explore that, now that we can."

"What sorts of things?" answers Crowley, taking very slow, measured breaths.

Aziraphale doesn't say anything, but he does put down his glass, and sort of tip himself towards Crowley, until he's leaning against him and his face is pressed into Crowley's neck. Crowley wraps his arms around him, because his brain may be elsewhere, but his arms know enough, even without direction, to welcome Aziraphale close.

Aziraphale rewards him with a little pleased wiggle. "It depends, of course, on what you'd be amenable to," he says, voice muffled against Crowley's collar, "but we could do this, or we could kiss, even. Or move in together, perhaps. Oh! I can give you gifts, now, can't I? Whatever I want, without worrying about Hell seeing it in your possession."

He wraps his arms reciprocally around Crowley, and it's all Crowley can do to choke out, "Yes. Amenable. To those things. All of them."

Aziraphale brightens with delight -- Crowley can't actually see his expression, but he knows the exact expression that's on his face right now from millennia of experience. He straightens up and pecks Crowley on the cheek.

For a minute, at least. When Crowley turns to look at him -- and it was to look at him, that's all he was doing -- the kiss turns into a proper kiss on the lips, and then something deeper. A few heartbeats go by, or maybe they're hours, as the kiss turns into something that leaves Aziraphale loose and pliant against Crowley's chest, sighing into his hair.

"This is --" Crowley stutters. "You want this? You want this to be what we are?" And he hopes it comes through that his hesitance isn't a rejection in the slightest, this is only him trying to keep control of thousands of years of longing so that Aziraphale knows that he wants only exactly what Aziraphale is willing to give.

He must have made his point, because Aziraphale breathes a happy sigh against his neck and gives his cheek another small kiss. "Oh, my dear," he says, pulling back to look at Crowley, eyes shining, "this is only the beginning."

* * *

The evening dissolves into hours of making out on the couch, with Aziraphale making all these little noises that make Crowley glad he's not wearing a cock. When Crowley finally turns to press his face into the couch and go to sleep, he gets close to drifting off before he's startled awake by the thought, _Aziraphale wants to move in together._ And then sleep quickly becomes a distant dream (so to speak). Does he want Crowley to move into the bookshop? Does he want to give Crowley a permanent place in this space where he's always been invited in, this cosy, cluttered, ridiculous space that's been a figurative wing over his head for two centuries?

Or does Aziraphale want to move into his flat? He thinks of Aziraphale's light and warmth filling the spacious corridors, putting to shame any of the ways that Crowley's used the space over the centuries. He thinks of Aziraphale in the nursery, among that Edenic green, spoiling the plants rotten because of course he would, and lets out a quiet _What the fuck?_ from the way that image alone overwhelms him.

Aziraphale looks up from across the room, and gives Crowley such a fond look that he thinks he might melt into the cushions. "Just ... just talking to myself, angel, you can go back to your book ..." Crowley mumbles, which for some reason makes Aziraphale clench a fist into his trouser leg.

He puts down the book of 4th century poetry he'd been reading and crosses the room to the couch. He kneels down in front of where Crowley's lying down and curls his hand around Crowley's jaw, leaning in as a silent request for permission.

Crowley's going to burst. He's going to discorporate on the spot, right here. He closes his eyes and sighs in contentment and assent, and Aziraphale kisses him. It's not deep, but it goes on and on -- Crowley could stay like this forever, and he'd like to believe Aziraphale feels the same. One of Aziraphale's hands is in Crowley's shirt, making tiny grasping motions that Crowley isn't sure Aziraphale is even aware of. But finally Aziraphale pulls back and rests his forehead on Crowley's. He stares into his eyes for a long moment, and takes a long breath in and out. Then he stands up, straightening his waistcoat. "Thank you for that," he says quietly, cheeks pink and gaze still lingering on Crowley's eyes.

_"Thank --?"_ Crowley begins in disbelief, before he gets a slight hold of himself. "Any time, angel. _Any_ ... yeah. I ... uh, yeah. I really liked that. But you knew that." Alright, so maybe he doesn't exactly have a handle on himself after all. Doesn't matter, though. Aziraphale's smiling at him, and his heart is so full it's spilling over and flooding his senses.

Aziraphale returns to his book, and Crowley tries to sleep again. He's close, he really is, when a third lovely thought enters his brain -- the two of them moving into a new place together. A place that could be chosen for both of them, together, from the start. Hell, they could have a home on each continent if Aziraphale wanted -- not like anyone's going to stop them anymore. Aziraphale would insist on letting locals have it most of the time, and Crowley would insist on violating zoning laws to build it, and they'd reach an amiable compromise. And they'd always return to London, to a space they'd made together, bit by bit, for their _union_ \-- Crowley flushes when he realizes all the implications of the word he just thought, but he can't be embarrassed too long. He's already moved on to imagining lying in bed next to Aziraphale, on a soft bed in a wide room they've furnished for just that purpose. Aziraphale reads while Crowley settles down to sleep, and perhaps Aziraphale would idly run his fingers through Crowley's hair ...

He stops to blush more, because now he really is letting his imagination run away with him. Yet ... he can't actually convince himself that that fantasy (which is more well-worn than he'd like to admit) is completely out of the question. The expression on Aziraphale's face when he'd mentioned _kissing, and giving each other gifts, and moving in together_ had been one of carefully holding back. Crowley has a Ph.D in carefully holding back by now, and in all of Aziraphale's looks that say as much. Aziraphale wants more, and he's trying not to push Crowley. He wonders if he should mentally file this in the same category as Aziraphale coyly presenting him with the stain on his jacket, or getting himself locked up in prison while Crowley just so happened to be in town, or glancing at him hopefully over a failed play.

"Aziraphale," he murmurs, "you can come back over here if you like ..." He grits his teeth as he prepares the next thing that he wants to (needs to, hates to) say. "If it's all the same to you, I'd really like your hand in my hair." He winces as he says it, his desires grating on his ears.

But he knows immediately that it was the right thing, because he's rewarded with that delighted blush, while Aziraphale tries to avoid looking at him and avoid looking away at the same time. "Well, if you insist," he says, and bustles over. There's no more room on the couch, but he gently lifts Crowley's head and sits down behind him, settling Crowley's head into his lap, and no, this, this is the part where Crowley is going to discorporate, because Aziraphale's soft hands are in his hair, and out of Crowley's mouth are coming noises that he can't deny are _whimpers._

He turns to hide his face against Aziraphale, but that's no better -- Aziraphale's belly is soft and lovely and his clothes smell of him. He wins the fight against arousal by a hair, but can't seem to achieve the same victory against drowsiness, every stroke of Aziraphale's hands lulling him further towards sleep.

He dreams of Aziraphale spoiling the plants.

* * *

Aziraphale had packed his bags for two weeks (it was a smaller cargo than a human would carry, but he hadn't seen the need to inconvenience himself unnecessarily) and set off to see the world. He'd hopped around the globe -- Montreal, New Orleans, Sao Paulo, Sydney, Singapore, Taipei, Hyderabad, Nairobi, Cairo, Jerusalem, Rome -- eating the local cuisine, sampling the arts, and getting lost in libraries.

But that hadn't really been why he'd come.

He spent just as much time, if not more, in the sort of consideration that being half a world away from anything familiar can bring. He'd watched sunsets turn daylight to starlight, listened to rain fall on unfamiliar pavement, watched crowds of people living lives that were all so different and yet somehow the same. And he'd knelt in chapels, temples, cathedrals, addressing the questions inside him directly to God and then listening, as best he could, for whatever strains of Her voice still filtered down to Earth. He hadn't quite been sure what he was doing, but at the same time he knew that it was getting done. Perhaps he'd needed to reassure himself that the world still existed, that life was going on as it always had, that there was a realness here that wouldn't be snatched away the moment he was distracted.

That things can truly be different, now.

He missed Crowley terribly, of course, but the ache was almost pleasant. He'd had something ripped out of him, that day, when the Metatron's light had dimmed, leaving him alone in the dark. But there were other parts of him, parts that had been squished down as small as he could make them, reduced and hidden away and never given acknowledg ement, that could fill up the empty spaces left behind. It hurts. It burns through his fingers at the joints, but he's giddy with it. The world is immense and beautiful and sacred, and he loves Crowley. The world is here and moving and alive, and he loves Crowley. It's real.

* * *

They move in together on the two-month anniversary of the failed apocalypse.

Aziraphale had thought -- in retrospect, very foolishly -- that choosing the location would be the difficult part. In fact, it had been a breeze. Their new flat is on the top floor, above a row of store fronts on the ground floor and another flat on the first, but the truly lovely thing, the reason Aziraphale had brought Crowley out to see this one as soon as he'd seen it, is that the entire roof is a greenhouse. A complicated look had passed across Crowley's face when he'd seen it, but after a few minutes spent contemplating the space, his expression had turned to a grin. They'd walked out the door and bid the estate agent goodbye, and Crowley had turned to Aziraphale and said, "That's the one, isn't it?" And that had been that. It's near enough to the bookshop and Crowley's place that they can bring their things over as lazily as they'd like. This is a good thing, because, as previously mentioned, Aziraphale had been quite foolish to believe that finding a place would be the hard part. Everything else is turning out to be far more fraught than he'd anticipated.

The rearrangement of the interior layout, for one thing. Naturally, while they'd both agreed that the flat should end up having some semblance of structural integrity, there's no reason not to move a wall here and there. They could get rid of that pointless cupboard over there, Aziraphale had said (without thinking), and make their bedroom a bit bigger.

Crowley startles at that, and Aziraphale hastily backtracks. "Er, your bedroom, I mean," he says quickly. "Since I don't sleep, after all, so you're the only one who needs a bedroom." And then he realizes that's worse, that makes it sound like he wanted a bedroom solely for activities of an intimate nature, possibly activities _with Crowley,_ which isn't exactly _wrong_ but which is quite definitely not the message he's trying to convey right now ... And then he stops puttering around in his own head as he realizes that Crowley hasn't actually objected.

"No, no," Crowley is mumbling, "s'just as much yours as it is mine. What if you get sleepy one day?"

"Ah, well, if you're alright with it." Aziraphale punctuates his statement with a firm nod, and moves on to the next topic as swiftly as he can.

Rearranging the bathroom goes equally poorly. It's the obvious course of action to remove the toilet but keep the mirror, and to move the shower over so that the bathtub can be expanded. But then Aziraphale thinks about whether he needs to make the bathtub big enough for two, and then he imagines asking Crowley that question, which is a terrible decision, really -- his face becomes flushed and then Crowley asks what's wrong and it's all Aziraphale can do to start fussing with the towel racks until he drops the subject. In the end Aziraphale does make the tub big enough for two, but he tries not to think about what he's doing, and he hopes Crowley doesn't say anything.

Not to mention -- well, perhaps it really isn't _worth_ mentioning -- probably isn't even really a _thing_ at all -- but if Aziraphale wasn't imagining it -- which he probably was -- Crowley _did_ give him sort of an odd look when they were carrying in the books.

He'd just seemed to be paying particular attention to the sight of Aziraphale carrying his books. Admittedly, this would have been a strange sight to any humans watching, since Aziraphale had wanted to get as many books moved as possible, so he'd rolled up his sleeves and applied his considerable angelic strength to the task rather than waste time making many small trips. But there hadn't been any humans watching, and it's rather ridiculous to think that Crowley was just ... swooning at the sight of his muscles, or some nonsense like that. Frankly, the matter doesn't warrant any more attention and he is quite done thinking about it.

The point is, he's glad they're done for the day, glad Crowley is sprawled on the couch (miracled straight from his flat) using his mobile device to order them Indian. Aziraphale brings over the wine and sits down heavily in the seat next to him. Sitting on a couch with Crowley, with wine glasses in front of them, feels almost familiar. But of course everything is different. The living room is sparse, but already the room displays the artefacts of both their lives mingled amongst each other. Aziraphale rests his gaze on a bookshelf that he's owned for centuries, which now holds Crowley's collection of modern music on the lower shelves, and a 16th-century portrait of him on the highest.

"I don't think I've seen that one since it was first painted. It's a lovely portrait of you." Crowley's head has found its way into his lap again, and Aziraphale strokes his hair as they converse, because that's a thing he can do now. That's part of the life they get to have now. "I like the way you've done your hair there, it suits you."

"You like it long?" Crowley asks, in a tone that's so casual it wraps back around to intense.

Aziraphale nods. "I've always thought you looked beautiful with your hair falling over your shoulders." Truthfully, he likes it short, too, and mid-length, and curled, and straight. But he's never stopped feeling a very particular way about the way Crowley had looked on the wall of Eden.

There's a ripple through the air, and then Aziraphale's lap is suddenly much more full than it had been, red curls now spilling over his knees. Crowley's gaze is firmly fixed on his phone, but Aziraphale can see a blush creeping over his cheekbones. "You didn't have to do that," says Aziraphale, with a little more fluster in his tone than he'd intended. "I like all the ways you style it, I was just admiring--"

"S'fine," Crowley says quickly. "I wanted to change it. Want you to have--" he gestures to his head-- "to play with. Or, uh, you know, whatever you want."

He's _very_ fixedly looking down at his phone now, and Aziraphale takes it upon himself to remedy the situation. He leans down and kisses Crowley's forehead, and when Crowley tips his head back in response, Aziraphale progresses to his nose, his cheeks, and finally his lips.

Crowley's eyes are closed, and he makes a small noise against Aziraphale's lips. A shiver goes down Aziraphale's spine. Crowley looks blissful, on account of Aziraphale. The way he looks now is the exact opposite of how he'd looked whenever Aziraphale had forced himself to turn away, to hold back his affection lest he destroy his dearest friend.

Crowley relaxes as they kiss. It's been a long day, after all, and as he reaches up to curl his hand in Aziraphale's hair, he simultaneously melts against Aziraphale's lap. His shoulders release their tension, and he sinks into the softness of Aziraphale's thighs. He's making sounds that are somewhere between sighs and moans, and Aziraphale adores him more than anything in the universe.

Crowley lies back down on Aziraphale's lap, and Aziraphale continues to stroke the soft strands that are more luxurious than a five-course dinner. There's a self-indulgent pleasure in it that Aziraphale might even call, if he dared to say it, _sinful._ Perhaps that's not too surprising, he thinks as he traces a finger along the shell of Crowley's ear. This demon is the tempter of Eden, after all. But Aziraphale thinks he might be coming round to Crowley's point of view on it, that God wouldn't have put something right there for the taking if She hadn't intended it to be partaken of. He bends down and places a kiss on the red shine of Crowley's hair where it reflects the lamplight. Perhaps this is part of Her plan, like clothes and books and apples are.

The doorbell rings. Both of them jolt into alertness, and Crowley springs off the couch to get the door. For a minute, Aziraphale stares at the ceiling, mourning the loss of Crowley's warmth. Ah, well. There will surely be other times, now. Now that they're free.

Crowley's flushed down to his neck when he comes back into the room carrying plastic bags full of takeout containers. "Hm. No dishes yet, huh?"

He goes to snap his fingers, but Aziraphale stops him with a wave of his hand. "The plastic containers are fine for today." He isn't sure why he feels that so strongly today -- it's far from his usual attitude towards having nice things. Perhaps it's that any experience right now feels charming and delightful, with Crowley by his side like this.

They eat on the couch together -- really, Aziraphale eats, and Crowley takes a few bites and then watches Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiles fondly at him, and Crowley sits up a bit in what seems to be a sudden bout of self-consciousness.

"It doesn't bother you, does it?"

"Dear, you've been watching me eat for centuries now. If I minded, I would have said something." His heart sinks, a little, though. For centuries, yes. For centuries they've been having feelings that they didn't dare articulate -- couldn't safely articulate. "I like it, actually. I like -- well, to be quite honest, I enjoy having your attention. Shouldn't you be the one bothered, having to always sit and wait while I finish my meal?"

"Er, I don't mind. Not at all, really. I like ... ah, I like watching you enjoy yourself."

Aziraphale feels his cheeks pink. "Is that why you, ah, why you always have such an intense expression?" Aziraphale's mind is wandering off the topic, and he makes the effort to steer the conversation back around to food. "Even so, wouldn't you like to try a bit of everything? The saag paneer is delicious." Crowley agrees more readily than usual, possibly tempted by the change of subject. Aziraphale feeds him straight from his own spoon, because he can, and because there's something about watching Crowley close his lips so close to Aziraphale's fingers, to partake of the food Aziraphale's offering him.

It's past sundown by the time they finish the meal. "Well, no point in having that nice big bedroom if you're not going to sleep in it," says Crowley, standing, with a long stretch that exposes a strip of skin on his waist for just a moment. "I'm going to bed, you coming?"

For a moment Aziraphale starts to go to his reflexive answer. He doesn't sleep, and Crowley knows this full well, has gone to bed countless times leaving Aziraphale at his desk or on the couch or by the bookshelves. But because of that very fact, this can't simply be a neutral question. Rather, Aziraphale wonders if it's something of an explicit invitation.

For one night, then, he can be an angel who sleeps. "You know, I suppose I will." He slips his hand into Crowley's as they head towards the bedroom. "You'll have to show me how, though."

"Right," Crowley says faintly. "Sleep. Yup." He closes the door to the bedroom behind him and miracles himself into a luxurious-looking set of black pyjamas. Aziraphale supposes he should follow suit, so he does the same, summoning for himself a set made of cosy grey cotton.

The bed is the one piece of new furniture they've bought today, and it really is quite lovely. Aziraphale slides under the covers and sinks into the mattress, and then watches as Crowley does the same. He looks unbearably lovely like this, clad in soft silk, hair tumbling down his shoulders, all the tension draining from his frame. It's little wonder that Aziraphale can do nothing but stare.

He holds out his arms in a silent plea for Crowley to draw close. As Crowley nestles in, he gives Aziraphale that familiar indulgent smile. Oh, _alright, but only because you want me to, angel._ Aziraphale kisses his forehead, right against the hairline, as he pulls Crowley against his body. He's overwhelmed with the memory of how many times he's wanted this, how many times he resigned himself to never having this, how many times he's tentatively wondered if it might be possible, some day. He kisses again and again and again, until Crowley impatiently offers his mouth instead.

Crowley gently moves his lips against Aziraphale's, and slides his hand over Aziraphale's jaw into his hair. _Excuse me, but I might love you more than life itself,_ Aziraphale wants to say. _I need to inform you that I'm hopelessly, disastrously in love with you. You ought to know that every time you touch me is the best thing that's ever happened to me._

They have to pull back eventually, but Aziraphale doesn't want to stop touching him. He fusses with the free ends of Crowley's hair, and Crowley closes his eyes contently so he continues up to his scalp. He hasn't forgotten the way Crowley simply dissolved into mush in his lap while they were on the couch earlier, and he's more than a little eager to see if he can produce that same reaction again. Experimentally, he drags his nails across Crowley's scalp, and he can see the full-body shiver that runs through Crowley at that. "Good?" he asks softly.

Crowley quickly nods and moves to press his face more into Aziraphale's chest. "Please ... yeah, keep doing that." Aziraphale keeps playing with his hair, gently separating the locks and folding them into plaits. Crowley whimpers, barely audible, the whole time, only raising his voice when Aziraphale's fingers brush the back of his neck.

"It's very soft and very beautiful," Aziraphale whispers, almost to himself.

Crowley makes a noise, and his arm wraps around Aziraphale and squeezes, and Aziraphale is startled to notice how quick Crowley's breath is coming. _"Yours, yours, yours,"_ Crowley whispers, and his voice is unexpectedly choked.

Aziraphale drags his nails through his hair again, from his forehead all the way down to the base of his neck, and Crowley arches into the touch. Aziraphale shivers. He definitely wasn't wrong about what kind of effect this is having on Crowley. He kisses Crowley's forehead again. "Dearest?" he whispers. "Would you like me to touch you?" He lets his hand slide down Crowley's shoulder and side to rest on his hip.

He thinks he sees a blush creeping up Crowley's neck. "I, um ... that's alright, uh ..." He exhales a long, hot breath against Aziraphale's chest. "I want you to keep touching my hair, but would you mind if I ...?"

"Not at all," Aziraphale says gently, unbraiding Crowley's hair. He is very much not bothered by that idea, and feels his face start to flood with colour as he considers it.

He begins braiding again, deliberately brushing the shell of Crowley's ear as he scoops up the red strands into locks. For a moment, Crowley doesn't move, with the exception of the shivers that are wracking his body. When he does start to move his hand downwards, it's slowly, almost nervously. Aziraphale aches with love for him.

He gives an encouraging kiss to Crowley's temple, and Crowley finally presses his hand between his thighs and begins to make tiny movements. They're slotted together close enough that Crowley's hand bumps Aziraphale's thigh from time to time, and somehow even that small contact through their pyjamas is enough to send tiny shockwaves of pleasure up and down Aziraphale's spine. Maybe it's being this close to him. Maybe it's getting to hold him and caress him and give him the gentleness he deserves.

_"My precious, beloved Crowley."_ He doesn't even mean to say the words out loud, but they escape with a breathy sigh when Crowley gives a particularly high whimper. And that only makes Crowley suck in another breath, his hand moving faster, his body hot against Aziraphale in all the places they're touching.

_"Aziraphale,"_ Crowley moans, pushing his hand back far enough that Aziraphale figures he has a finger or two inside himself now. Aziraphale flushes with heat.

He cups Crowley's head to pull him against his chest. With the other hand he caresses the back of Crowley's neck, raking his nails lightly down his spine. _"My love, my love."_

_"Fuck,"_ Crowley gasps. His body jerks against Aziraphale's, and Aziraphale wraps both arms around him to hold him, secure and close, as he comes. His body shakes in waves, and small helpless moans escape his mouth as he rides it out. And immediately he's tipping his head up and kissing Aziraphale.

For a minute he's just pressing himself against Aziraphale's mouth over and over -- tired, insistent, messy. And then he mumbles, "Didn't take care of you," against Aziraphale's lips.

Aziraphale quickly shushes him. "Don't you worry about that."

"What if I want to?" Crowley asks. His arms are wrapped around Aziraphale's neck, and Aziraphale notices that he's still trembling from aftershocks. "You're not the only one, you know. I told you, I like seeing you enjoy yourself."

He pulls back to meet Aziraphale's eyes as he says it, and Aziraphale feels a shudder roll through his body, from the core of himself out to his extremities. He asks, very quietly, "Can I keep my hands in your hair?"

Crowley smiles at him, adoring and indulgent. "After _that,_ I think you can do whatever you bloody well like." With his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, he tips him back and rolls part of the way on top of him. His thigh is just close enough that Aziraphale knows Crowley can feel his arousal through the cotton fabric. "I want to touch you, angel," he whispers against Aziraphale's cheek before pressing a small kiss there.

Aziraphale nods and continues to run his fingers through Crowley's hair, with his other hand curled around Crowley's body. He inhales a shuddering breath when Crowley pushes underneath his waistband to touch him in gentle strokes. Crowley's voice rumbles into the crook of his neck, still low and affected. "You are, Aziraphale, the most amazing being in this entire universe, Above or Below." He kisses the skin there and Aziraphale shivers, his breaths turning shallow and shaky. "I want nothing more than to give you everything you want and everything you deserve." Aziraphale can't help but jerk up into his fist, tipping his head back as he whimpers.

Crowley continues to stroke him ever so gently. Somewhere in there he's used a small miracle to make his hand slick, sliding warm and soft where he's touching Aziraphale. He traces his other hand down Aziraphale's chest, over his pyjama shirt, the slightest brush of sensation. "You're the best thing I've ever had, Aziraphale. You've made me happier than anyone, ever."

_"Crowley!"_ Aziraphale's mouth falls open as he arches his back, making fists in Crowley's hair. Crowley quickens his rhythm at just the right moment and Aziraphale keens, rocking against Crowley as he spills into his hand.

He whimpers from aftershocks as he settles, eyes still closed, back into Crowley's embrace. Now that the haze of arousal is wearing off, he's overcome by something like awe. Countless evenings he's ended prematurely, in fear of exactly this. Countless words gone unspoken, gazes that dared not linger. Aziraphale luxuriates in the punishment that does not come.

He finds Crowley's lips without opening his eyes, and they share a kiss that stretches on for many lovely minutes. Aziraphale has his hand in Crowley's hair again, and Crowley hums blissfully at the touch. "So, you have 'a thing' for having your hair played with?" Aziraphale asks with a bastard smirk, though the effect is somewhat ruined by how breathy his voice still is. Crowley mumbles something against Aziraphale's shoulder that he can't make out at all.

"Hm?"

"I said, it's you being gentle with me," Crowley sighs, a touch exasperated.

Aziraphale can't tease anymore, he's too cracked open by Crowley's admission. _I can be gentle with you, let me be gentle with you forever,_ is what he wants to say. Instead what comes out of his mouth is, "I love you."

Aziraphale thinks he feels Crowley shiver. "You can't take that back, now. You said it. You love me." He wraps his arms around Aziraphale, pressing up against as much of Aziraphale's body as he can.

"I won't," Aziraphale whispers. "Not ever."

**Author's Note:**

> Title is of course from All This and Heaven Too by Florence + The Machine.
> 
> HUGE shoutout to StreetWise, lydia, quotharaven, TZart, Marleena, CelestialArcadia, LiquidLyrium, elizabethelizabeth, under_a_linden_tree, Äpple Duty, sungmee, squeegeelicious, 5ftjewishcactus, and MovesLikeBucky themself, **and ESPECIALLY Phoenix_of_Athena and akinmytua,** for encouragement without which this fic would absolutely have been impossible. Shoutout to Lurlur as well, for britpicking. I can't thank y'all enough, again especially Cats and Tarek, you rock.
> 
> Happy Birthday Bucky!


End file.
